Déjà Vu
by yoitspaige
Summary: Will Graham was the common denominator between them; both knew where they stood. She was planted firmly beside of him; he had his foot planted firmly at his throat.
1. Chapter 1

Hannibal Lecter had just crossed the threshold of his parlour when his doorbell rang. The doctor hesitated and backpedaled, hands dropping from his wrist where he was working a button loose. He stared at the rich mahogany wood and mentally scanned the appointment book he left on his desk; his last patient had just left half an hour ago and he wasn't scheduled to see anyone until eight o'clock the next morning. The bell shrieked again and he heard boots scuffle against the concrete of his porch. A desperate patient would have gone to his office door first, he decided, as he slowly stepped forward and grasped the brass handle, pulling it open. A rush of bitterly cold snow blew into his face and he squinted his dark eyes as they recognized the figure standing before him.

"Doctor Bloom," he greeted, his thick accent rolling off of his tongue. The young woman stared up at him, flakes of the pallid snow clinging to her brunette hair. "Please, come in," he offered politely as he moved back. She quickly stepped inside, her gloved hands rubbing together vigorously. Without a word Hannibal helped slide her damp pea coat from her shoulders. "I was not expecting you."

"I apologize for this, I-," Alana's words trailed off as her senses kicked in, head quickly looking back toward the kitchen area. A warm, tempting aroma filled her nostrils. Her brows shot upwards and a look of guilt flooded her soft features. "Doctor Lecter, I didn't realize I was interrupting your dinner."

The older man laughed in only a way he could; deep, full of conflicting emotions. "I am dining alone tonight. My last appointment extended almost an hour later than scheduled so I am just now beginning to cook but please, do not apologize for coming to see me. You are always welcome for a meal." His thin lips quirked into a partial smile as he beckoned his former student to follow him. He turned on his heel smoothly and began to walk, allowing an uncomfortable silence to settle between them. He listened as Alana's boots echoed behind him, slow and distracted, as if she were beginning to regret coming to him after all. The two descended farther into the house, their shadows dancing along the walls in the low lighting. "You never stopped by for a courtesy visit even as a student so I assume you needed to speak with me about something," he mused as he stepped into the kitchen and over to the stove, flicking the knob to light a blue fire under a sauté pan. Alana stopped at the bar, her arms folded tightly at her chest. She watched as Hannibal unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them to his elbows, cupping his hands around onions—apparently chopped before she arrived—and dropped them into the pan.

"I came about Will," she finally answered resignedly, the hissing from the onions meeting the hot oil almost drowning out her words. The older man didn't look surprised and lifted the pan a bit, sliding it over the burner.

"Yes, I knew. He's the common denominator between us."

"He showed up to my house tonight," Alana began, watching the man intently to see what would trigger something in him to finally meet her gaze. "He told me he had no idea how he had gotten there. I heard someone wandering around outside of my window and there he was, barefoot and staring into the sky. He said the last thing he remembers is leaving the Academy at two-thirty this afternoon." This finally warrants Hannibal's attention and he slowly looks toward Alana. His expression was unreadable but his eyebrows were raised slightly, silently urging her to continue. He caught the look of concern in her cerulean eyes, an emotion which differed from her stoic expression. Alana took a deep breath, stepping around the bar into the kitchen. "He was at my house at nine forty-five. He lost nearly eight hours of time!" Her voice rose slightly, betraying her fear. "Were you…are you aware of this?"

"Yes."

Alana blinked several times and shifted her weight so she was leaning heavily on one of her hips, her eyes darting around as he mind raced. "So you know this is happening and yet…, what, Hannibal, you allow him to just lose himself for over half of a day?" The use of his first name indicated Alana was breaking down her wall of professionalism she usually reserved for Doctor Lecter and he found this intriguing. Instead of defending himself, he dropped a spoonful of fresh garlic paste into his pan and turned down the heat. "I referred him to you because I trust you. It's no secret that Will is struggling but this? This is _dangerous," _she whispered, her hands planted firmly on the island dividing the two of them.

"And I am helping him. Will is my friend," Hannibal countered with an even voice, turning toward his stainless steel refrigerator. He opened the door, head and arm ducking inside before he reemerged with a bowl full of arugula and placed it on the island in front of Alana. "We have run tests on him; we have found nothing physically wrong with his brain," he lied easily. "His mind, however…," his voice trailed off as he picking up a clear container of amber-colored oil. He lifted it upside down, far from the bowl, and theatrically drizzled the oil onto the leaves as he spun the bowl around. "What we are dealing with is a mental illness no doubt."

Alana felt her chest clinch. "You've started him on treatments, yes?"

"He will refused them," Hannibal quipped matter-of-factually as he expertly sliced through the flesh of a lemon, severing it in half. He lifted one half of the fruit and crushed it between his hand, the liquid seeping onto the arugula. "He has always argued that his mind works best when it is clear of medications."

"That doesn't matter, he's compromised at this point. As his psychiatrist you have to enforce how serious it is for him to get this under control!" Alana demanded, her eyes trained on Hannibal's sharp features, her chest heaving slightly from the unbridled anger beginning to boil inside. "How long have you known about this happening?"

"Several weeks now, I'm afraid."

Alana's lean shoulders went rigid and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the edge of the island. "Doctor Lecter this is unethical," she breathed, controlled.

Hannibal casually looked towards the young woman, forcing himself to keep his lips from sliding upward into a sadistic smile. His fingers worked the arugula and he set his jaw, blinking twice to settle his mind. He knew of the unorthodox relationship between Will Graham and Alana Bloom. He couldn't help but to be fascinated at the extent the young doctor went for the unstable profiler; she would vehemently refuse any mention of her affection about Will but her body language, ah, that was something she could not control.

"Where is Will now?" Hannibal questioned, taking control of the conversation and steering it into his direction.

"He's at my house still."

"Does he know you came here?" Hannibal tilted his head a bit, veiling his question to seem curious and innocent. He needed to know if anyone was aware of Alana's trip to his home.

"No he's…I gave him something to sleep," she answered, squaring her shoulders.

"And he took it?" Hannibal prodded a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

"I slipped it into a drink," Alana admitted and turned away from him, her fingers pretending to be interested in the designs of the granite countertop.

Doctor Lecter swiftly fetched a pot holder and bent down toward the oven, opening the door to retrieve a steaming pan covered with aluminum foil. "And yet you blame me for being unethical," he remarked, allowing himself to smile over his shoulder at her. For a moment Alana lowered her walls and she returned a half smile.

"I suppose when dealing with Will Graham rules are…sometimes broken," she remarked, shaking her head slightly.

"I am going to help Will," Hannibal promised as he stepped around her and placed his hand on her shoulder, using her as leverage to reach for two bone china plates behind her. "We both care about him. I am debating several methods that will help him best. It is taking longer to begin treatment but as you said yourself, Will Graham is not a conventional patient." The man straightened up and gave Alana an actual smile. From his close proximity Alana became suddenly aware of his cologne. It was a distinct scent, very bright with a hint of musky undertones. Probably purchased in a specialty store somewhere in Europe, Alana decided, as this was one of the many unique quirks her colleague held. Refined and antiqued.

Hannibal turned his back to Alana, concentrating on the final touches of the meal. The young woman felt herself settling some. The issue with Will went deeper than him being disturbed by the crime scenes his investigated and he would still suffer for some time, but Hannibal wouldn't lie; he was going to get help.

Alana grabbed two salad bowls and began to dish out the arugula salad when the overwhelming sense of déjà vu latched onto her mind with such a rush she nearly felt dizzy. Her eyes travelled to stare at Hannibal, his back to her, continuing to work away. The brown waistcoat he still wore moved along with his body as he twisted around the kitchen expertly, drawing a knife from the case here, whisking the roux in another pan there. Alana focused on the dark brown material of his clothes, her eyes taking in the small, almost unnoticeable golden pinstripes that raced up and down the material. His cologne filled her nostrils again and she swallowed hard, her subconscious working hard to connect why this all seemed familiar to her.

_The Hobb's home. The investigation. The unknown man slinking up behind her, her head being slammed against the wall. A blur of brown and golden pin stripes, an overwhelming aroma of musk and ocean filling her senses as her head collided with the wall again. Her vision blackening and hands coming up to support her head and shoulders as she sunk to the floor. Nicholas Boyle, the man they had assumed attacked her, wouldn't have cradled her on the way down. No. Someone with connection to a victim did that. Someone that—_

"Alana, are you all right?"

Hannibal pulled her from her thoughts. Her eyes, beginning to glass over from her sudden recess into her mind, slowly looked toward the doctor. His hand was dancing over a large carving knife but he continued to hold her gaze. It was not a look of concern or of curiosity. It was a question wrapped up in a statement. Hannibal swiftly lifted the knife and sliced into the flesh inside of the pan, his thin lips drawn tight as he impatiently waited for her response.

"Perfectly fine," she whispered.

"Good. Let's eat."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **A huge thank you to everyone that read/favorited/followed/reviewed this story! I really appreicate it all. This section is diverting from the dinner scene with Hannibal to Alana's home; both events are roughly happening at the same time. Next update will be back at Hannibal's. Thank you again.

Will Graham awoke from his dreamless sleep by a violent scream erupting from his lips. The young man opened his eyes from one place of darkness into another. His arms, drenched in sweat, flailed about him as he fought to push himself into a sitting position on the bed. Dark eyes darted about the room, his chest beginning to swell as his fingers gripped the sheets below him. His rough hands immediately recognized the fabric as unfamiliar, eyes simultaneously adjusting to the blackness of the room.

He wasn't home.

The silhouettes of furniture were not his, the shadows that danced along the wall were not his. The soft sheets he twisted in his hands were not his. His bare chest—where was his shirt?—heaved as he struggled to pull oxygen into his lungs. Moonlight reflected against a vanity mirror on the far right side of the room; Will could see necklaces draped over the top of the mirror. Below, make-up brushes were lined up in a neat row next to a hairbrush. A shaky breath finally entered Will's lungs as he pushed his legs over the side of the bed, feet dangling above the wooden floor. He was definitely in a woman's room.

Why was he in a woman's room?

The uncertainty of this thought propelled him to his feet and he staggered towards the door. His feet ached as he settled his weight on them so halfway across the room he began to trot gingerly, hands spread out to grab the door to push himself into the hallway. Fear began to overwhelm his senses and he felt himself nearly tripping. What, why, how…he had been at the Academy. Yes, finishing up his lecture on…on what? Will brought his hands to his head, the heels pressing into his temples. What was he doing? Pressing his back against the wall he took several breathes before he glanced down the hallway, vaguely wondering where the owner—owners?—of the home were. A frightening and comforting realization tackled Will's mind at the same time. Suddenly he recognized this hallway. He remembered the iron railing to his left that dropped off into the parlour below, he remembered the pictures lining the right side, the precision of their spacing. He knew where he was.

This was Alana's house.

A sense of relief begged to take over the second emotion that was clawing its way to the forefront of Will's mind, but the latter was stronger. If this was Alana's house and it was this dark outside, she would have had to been here. Alana wasn't a sociable type. She was studious, she would have been home on a Tuesday night going over patient files or working on her lecture…without remembering to favor his sore feet—why were they sore?—Will flung himself down her staircase, taking two or three steps at a time. He gripped the railing the entire way down and used the momentum to swing himself toward her kitchen area. The entire house was dark save for a small light illuminating from the laundry room at the far end of the kitchen. Will swallowed drily and tried out his voice, fingers splaying along the walls as he moved toward the light.

"A..," he cleared his throat and tried again, his raging heartbeat beginning to deafen his hearing. "Alana!"

No response.

The young man ground his teeth together, another scream threatening to break free as he rushed toward the only lighted room. As he entered the laundry room his body reacted to the scene before his mind could register. Will shoved himself backwards so hard he collapsed to the floor on his backside as if someone had pushed him. His bare feet had stepped on a silky light blue button-down shirt. Dried blood was splattered along the midsection of the fabric as if it were some type morbid design. Beside of it laid his own grey pull-over, blood adoring the front of it as well. Will's pulse began to increase, reverberating violently inside of his head. Sweat began to seep from his pores and he felt his stomach clench as he pushed himself backwards on the linoleum, his hands grabbing for nothing.

"N-no, no…NO!" He screamed. He pushed himself back farther, allowing himself to be enveloped into the darkness.

Away from the light.

Could he have…yes, he mentally yelled, yes he was capable of murder. You don't put yourself into the shoes of killers, you don't visualize yourself strangling someone, you don't watch yourself gouge out the eyes of an innocent person without bringing some of that back. Will Graham doubled over, fingernails digging into his chest as his shoulders began to shake. Who had he become, he wondered darkly, when he did this.

He jerked his hands away from himself and stared at his palms, then flipped his hands over to look at the backside he could see red blood dried underneath his nail-beds. He had apparently been aware enough of his actions to try and wash his hands, to cover up whatever it was he did. Will's hands immediately went back to his face and he squeezed his eyes shut as tears began to burn against his eyelids.


End file.
